


Wake Up Older

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-15
Updated: 2006-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:44:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8697031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Fifth in the Things My Brother Taught Me series. Warnings: Wincest, teen sex, huge amounts of angst, strong language, flying objects and more misdirected blame.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Wake Up Older (Part One)  
Author: Hellskitten  
Email: crissyd33@yahoo.com  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Pairing: S/D  
Rating: NC-17   
Warnings: Wincest, teen sex, huge amounts of angst, strong language, flying objects and more misdirected blame.  
Spoilers: Some from the episodes “Home” and “Asylum”, but this is mostly AU. This continues immediately from my story series “Things My Brother Taught Me”, “Wednesday’s Child”, “The Wind Cries Mary” and “In Vino Veritas”. It won’t make much sense without them and you can find them in the Memories section of my LJ.  
Disclaimer: The boys and all their angst-ridden hotness belong to the WB.  
Notes: This story had a lot to tell but I didn’t want to put up a single 35 page story—so it’s in two pieces. But at least I won’t cliffhang y’all too badly.  
Soundtrack: “Am I Evil” by Metallica.  
  
***  
  
“Try it again,” Dean said. He stretched his neck, tried to clear his head and then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.  
  
Sam sat across from him on the opposite unmade bed and he scowled. “I don’t think it works like this. I think it’s a stress-related connection thing or something.”  
  
“Stress? We weren’t under stress when it happened last night.”  
  
“Well, no . . .” Sam grinned playfully. “But I had your dick in my mouth, Dean. We were definitely, er, connected.”  
  
“So . . . you’re saying you think we can only be telepathic when we’re touching each other?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “It sure as shit ain’t workin’ now.”  
  
“Just try it again.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Sam sighed and the7 locked eyes with his brother.  
  
They stared at each other and Dean concentrated, but nothing was happening. He couldn’t hear Sam’s voice in his head like he did the night before. Granted, it was only that one sentence, but still. It had been _right_ there. Clear as a bell. He knew they could do it again if they just practiced.   
  
This activity was also serving the purpose of keeping both their minds off the fact that their father had said he’d meet them in 36 hours—and that had been 35 hours and 47 minutes ago. They were blatantly avoiding watching the door and intentionally not looking at the time, but they were also very much aware of both.  
  
“Try this,” Dean said, reaching forward with his palms turned up, fingers extended.   
  
Sam placed his own long fingers on top of his brother’s, then they locked eyes again. They stared and stared, both frowning in concentration—nothing.   
  
Dean sighed, frustrated. He really wanted this to work. It would be an amazing advantage in hunting and he knew they had to figure it out. If it happened once, it would happen again. Suddenly, he had a thought and he dropped onto his knees in front of Sam, pulling him close for a soft kiss. Their lips touched and Sam frowned, drawing back a little.  
  
“Wait, Dean—you want to do this NOW? What if . . .” Sam glanced at the door warily.  
  
“I’m just thinking maybe . . . it’s _this_ kind of touching we need to be doing in order for the mind reading thing to work.”  
  
Sam acquiesced because it made sense and then he kissed Dean’s lips with gentle veneration. They stayed there for a moment, lips pressed, noses brushing, kissing lightly like whispers.   
  
“Are you trying to say something to me?” Dean murmured.  
  
“Um . . .” Sam kissed him again, softly licking his bottom lip. “I kinda . . . can’t concentrate . . .”  
  
Dean understood that. As soon as their lips touched, his body had gone into that automatic launch mode and all his senses became polarized to Sam’s touch. He went hot with craving and his mind had basically gone blank. Sighing again, he slouched down on the floor. “Shit.”  
  
Sam shook his head. “Let’s just try it later. I’m too distracted right now, anyway.” He stood up and paced the length of their room twice, his long legs making short work of the journey. Scratching his fingers through his soft, floppy hair, he frowned at his watch. “Maybe we should call him.”  
  
Dean looked at his cell phone on the night table between the beds but he did not pick it up. “He’s not late yet,” he said, checking his own watch. “In fact, he’s still got four minutes.”  
  
“I’m sure he wasn’t being that precise about the time,” Sam said, pacing the floor again. “In fact, if I had to offer a premonition about it, I’d say he wasn’t coming at all.”  
  
Dean frowned at his brother. “Why would you think that? He said he was coming. He’ll be here.”  
  
“Dean, Dad is playing games with us. He’s putting us through some kind of . . . test. I don’t know why, and I don’t really care—but it pisses me ALL the way off and I want him to quit it.”   
  
“That’s nuts,” Dean barked. “Dad would never do anything like that to us! What the hell would he have to test us about, Sam? He knows everything we’re capable of because he TAUGHT us.”  
  
Sam turned on him, his eyes fierce and sparkling. “He knows everything _you’re_ capable of, Dean! He doesn’t know shit about me anymore.”  
  
They stared at each other silently for a long, breathless moment, both boys processing the bald truth that now hung in the still air between them. Finally, Dean looked away, slumping back against the bed he’d slept in the night before. He glanced over at his cell, but again he left it where it lay.  
  
“Then I guess I don’t know shit about you, either,” he said quietly. “I mean . . . the little brother that left us when he turned eighteen was someone I trusted with my life.” He brought his wounded gaze back to Sam. “But this little brother in the room with me now shot me three times in the chest the first chance he got.”  
  
Bravely, Sam held that challenging gaze. “That wasn’t me, Dean. You know better.”  
  
“Ellicott’s spirit didn’t _possess_ you, Sam. He just ramped up the rage that was already IN you. You weren’t somebody ELSE, you were a bigger, louder version of yourself! And you shot your fucking brother at point blank range!” Dean was on his feet then and he charged right up to Sam, staring hard into his glinting green eyes. “You didn’t even fucking hesitate.”  
  
Sam was breathing in shallow pants and his face became of mask of tragic remorse. His eyes filled with sudden tears and he looked imploringly at Dean, shaking his head and trying to speak.   
  
“Do you hate me, Sam?” Dean whispered through his teeth. “Do you really, honestly hate me?”  
  
“You _can’t_ be asking me that.” Sam brought his hands to his face and then he did start to cry. Or perhaps weep better described what he did.   
  
Dean fought with himself not to take his brother in his arms and get on with the big forgiveness scene. He absolutely could not stand seeing Sam cry—never could. He wanted to forgive him—wanted it more than anything—but he knew there had to be a more solid understanding between them first. He knew they had to get it all out before they could call this train wreck cleared. Dean swallowed and opened his mouth to speak—  
  
\--and that was when the door opened.  
  
The hinges creaked softly, the mid day sunlight reached into the room and in the center of that bright rectangle stood John Winchester. He cradled a fully stuffed grocery bag in one arm and a large bundle of keys dangled from his other hand. For a moment, the three of them just stood there, three sets of moss green eyes exchanging glances full of disbelief, suspicion, reprieve and the unconditional love of human beings connected by blood.  
  
John’s eyes rested on those of his oldest for a moment and then he turned to Sam’s tear streaked face. “Huh,” he said. “Looks like I’m just in time.” He walked into the room and closed the door behind him, turning to set the grocery bag down on a table near the window. He put the keys next to the sack, then he turned to his bewildered sons again.  
  
“Dad?” Dean said, unable to believe his own eyes. “It’s really you, right?”  
  
“As real as it gets,” John said. He crossed the room and put his hands on Dean’s trembling shoulders, looking at him closely. His eyes twinkled with a smile. “Are you making your brother cry?”  
  
Dean swallowed. “It’s kind of . . . the opposite.” And then he pulled his father to him in a tight, nearly desperate embrace. John hugged him back for a long time, both of them holding tighter by the second. When he broke the embrace, John kissed Dean’s forehead. By then, they were both tearing up.  
  
“Damn, it’s good to see you, Dad.”  
  
“You, too, kid.” He stood back and looked his oldest up and down. “All in one piece, too.”  
  
“So far.” Dean tried to smile and then he watched his father turn to Sam.   
  
The two men regarded each other with tentative caution. It had been almost five years since they’d laid eyes on one another and their last meeting had been anything but friendly. Sam’s eyes were streaming tears but Dean guessed he didn’t even know he was still crying. He just kept looking at his father with an expression that changed every second. Sam’s feelings flickered on his troubled young face like scenes in a movie—anger, relief, distrust, sorrow, love, defiance, weariness, contrition. John watched all of this, his own eyes tracking each change of heart.   
  
“Sammy?” he said softly, his voice weak with an uncertainty Dean had never witnessed in him before. “It’s really good to see you, son.” He paused, swallowed and then said, “are you all right?”  
  
Sam’s bitter laughter exploded into the room like shattering glass. “All right?! Are you fucking kidding me, Dad?!” He shook his head, wiped angrily at his wet cheeks and then he started that pacing thing again. Once his rant began, it didn’t wind down for two full minutes.  
  
“You just fucking DISappear with no word for months on end, you’re driving Dean nuts—and all you give us are these cryptic little messages, texts, stupid clues left behind like M &Ms in the forest—and we just follow you like the mindless little puppy dogs we are!” He shot a harsh glance at Dean after that remark and Dean flinched from it, looking away.   
  
“I see, I’m driving _Dean_ nuts, am I?” John said softly.  
  
Sam ignored him and ranted on.  
  
“I had a life, Dad! I was doing great! I had—” His voice caught on fresh tears and then he blundered through them. “I had the _best_ girlfriend. You would have loved her.” He wiped his face again but to no avail—more tears poured out right after, as though a dam had broken inside him. Dean figured that’s exactly what this was. “And she had to die because of all this . . . this . . . LUNACY! She didn’t deserve that! She didn’t even KNOW about it! And then, THIS one!” He glared at Dean again and Dean met the challenge, eyes set dark and steely.  
  
“You’re gonna start on me now?”  
  
“You’re worse than HIM!” Sam yelled. “I was free, Dean! I was OUT. And you came to Stanford and forced me back into this insane life. You gave me no fucking choice! If you hadn’t come to me and infected me with all this godforsaken evil, Jessica would still be alive!!”  
  
Dean bolted across the room so quickly, he even surprised himself. He grabbed Sam by the shirt and pulled him forward, growling in his face.  
  
“Don’t you DARE blame that on me! This thing has been after our family for as long as we’ve been alive and YOU KNOW IT! I did not infect you, asshole. Our stalker had just been laying low!”  
  
“How do you know it wouldn’t have stayed low, Dean?! How do you know it wouldn’t have let me go because I stepped away from this fucking crusade?! If it wanted to kill Jessica, why did it wait until YOU were with me?!! It had YEARS!!”  
  
They stared at each other, huffing angry breath in the other’s face. Dean found, the longer those searing questions lingered in the air, the more he hated their potential answers. He felt his resolve weakening and he also felt the intensity of their father’s gaze upon them.   
  
“You and I can do this later, Sam,” he hissed through his teeth. “Right now . . . you should talk to your father. In case you’ve forgotten, you abandoned him four and a half years ago. An apology is in order. Make it!” He shoved his brother backward into the dresser and the mirror rattled slightly from the impact.   
  
Sam glared at him, eyes blazing hate and then that same mirror behind him shattered in its frame. He jumped and turned around to see what had happened. For a breathless moment, all three of them stared at the broken glass, blinking in surprise.  
  
“I didn’t push you that hard,” Dean said.  
  
“It wasn’t you,” John said and both boys looked at him. John was looking at Sam. “It was you, Sammy.”  
  
Still panting from the fight, Sam shook his head and looked back at the broken mirror. “I . . . did that?”   
  
“Mm.” John walked over to the table where he’d left the grocery bag and reached into it. Out came a fresh bottle of Jameson’s Irish Whisky and three neatly stacked shot glasses. Each glass had some sort of image on it but the boys couldn’t see them from across the room. John went to the end of the bed Dean had slept in and regarded his oldest with stern affection. “Dean, your brother doesn’t need to apologize to me unless he wants to. That isn’t your call. Is that clear?” He waited for a response.  
  
Frowning in frustration, Dean nodded once. “I just want—“  
  
John held up his hand. “I know what you want, son. I want it, too.” He nodded to the two beds. “That said, park it. Both of you—facing each other. We’ve got a ton of air to clear.”  
  
Dean hesitated but only for a second. Instinct moved his feet forward and he sat down on the bed, just like he’d been told. John stood watching Sam, who remained where he was by the dresser. They stared at each other again.  
  
“Sam,” John said, his voice barely audible. “Please. We’ve gotta fix this.”  
  
Sighing, Sam went to the opposite bed and sat down wearily. He sniffed and wiped at his wet face with his hands, then wiped his hands on his jeans. John reached into his shirt pocket and took out a neatly folded linen handkerchief. He held it out for Sam who scowled at it for a minute before he accepted it.  
  
John turned to the night table and lined up the shot glasses on it, then he broke the seal on the Jameson’s. When he started pouring, Dean interrupted.  
  
“Sam shouldn’t have any—he’s on antibiotics. And he had morphine less than 24 hours ago.”  
  
John looked at his youngest. “You’re wounded?”  
  
Sam nodded once, blew his nose into his dad’s handkerchief.  
  
“His belly,” Dean said.  
  
John filled the glasses anyway, then put the bottle down next to them. He handed Dean a shot glass that bore the logo of a Las Vegas casino called Crazy Horse, then he gave another glass to Sam.  
  
“Will you let me take a look?” he said, bending over in front of his youngest son.   
  
Sam tipped backward and lifted his shirt up to the place where his stitches were. John peered at them closely.  
  
“Mermaid bite?”  
  
“Yeah.” Sam’s voice was thick from congestion. It made him sound like a little boy and that sound made Dean want to scream until his ears went numb. His insides were a hot ball of churning emotions, all conflicting and all so volatile they seemed to want to melt his ribcage. But the one emotion that kept rising to the top of that morass was an overwhelming feeling of relief. Dad was there. He was alive. Their family was together again. Looking up, he watched as John inspected Sam’s stitches, taking particular note of the affectionate way his hand rested against his boy’s exposed injured belly.   
  
“That’s a good one, young man,” John said, straightening up. “Must’ve hurt like a herd o’ angry bitches.”  
  
“Only until I got that shot.” Sam’s eyes darted to Dean’s, then away again.  
  
“Well, if you made it through that, a little whisky ain’t gonna kill ya.” John picked up the last glass and stood between his sons, holding it up for a toast. “To your mother.”   
  
Solemnly, they all drank.  
  
Dean felt the delicious heat of the whisky burn through his belly immediately. It tasted wonderful—so smooth and a little oily. He didn’t think he’d ever had such a nice drink. Before he could ask for another shot, his father was pouring it—in fact, he refilled all their glasses—and then he sat down beside Dean on the bed.  
  
“Good stitching,” he said to his oldest with a little twinkle in his eye. “Maybe you should have been a doctor. In another life.”  
  
Dean smirked humorlessly. “Yeah, but then you’d have a doctor _and_ a lawyer for sons. How could you live with the shame?”  
  
John smiled, looked over at Sam again. “I heard about your LSATs. Well done.”  
  
Sam rubbed his forehead roughly. “I SO cannot talk about any of that. I’ll start yelling again and my fucking head’ll explode.”  
  
“We have to talk about it, Sam,” their father said. “These things have been festering long enough. It’s gone toxic now.”  
  
“Yeah, okay, fine, but right now,” Sam interjected. “I want to talk about that mirror. Why are you so sure I did that? I’ve never done anything like that before. The most I’ve ever done is slam or open doors.”  
  
“That’s not quite the truth,” John said. “Don’t you remember all those books flying at me when you were in high school? The liquor bottles that would suddenly shatter just as I reached for them?”  
  
Dean frowned, turning to his father. “You told me that was residual spirit activity. Angry crap left over from the hunts.”  
  
“Well, it was,” John said. “Angry crap from your brother’s subconscious. He didn’t even know he was doing it—just like now.” He glanced at the broken mirror pensively. “I’ll have to leave Earl some cash for that. Hope it wasn’t an antique.”  
  
“You threw books at Dad?” Dean said, looking for any reason to get angry all over again. He’d never wanted to kick Sam’s ass so badly in his entire life, even though he knew it was only a temporary flash of rage.  
  
“I didn’t know!” Sam snarled back defensively.  
  
Holding up his hand, John got between them before they started fighting again. “Mostly, they were books he wanted me to read,” he explained. “Books that had some relevance to something we’d fought about. Things he hoped would help him explain his point of view because . . . all we ever did was yell at each other, not communicate. Kinda like what I’m seeing here. But you two were never like this.”  
  
Again, John and his youngest exchanged a glance.  
  
“I don’t remember throwing things at you,” Sam muttered.  
  
Nodding slowly, John tipped his glass to his lips and drained the shot. “You wouldn’t. But I do. You threw books at me about alcoholism and grief recovery. Anger management.” He laughed a bit sadly. “Once you threw a cookbook at me after I burned dinner a few nights in a row. But you especially liked that big heavy one about ancient Greece. That one would always hit the wall and then land on the floor open to a chapter about The Sacred Band of Thebes.”  
  
Dean’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What was that about?”  
  
John and Sam stared hard at each other but nothing was said. At least nothing Dean could hear. He hated feeling shut out like that but he knew if he said anything, they would both think he was being a baby. Finally, John took a deep breath and reached for the bottle again. Dean drank the shot in his hand, John poured him another, then he offered it to Sam.  
  
For a moment, Dean thought his brother would refuse judging by his bitter expression. But then Sam drank the shot he was holding and let his father refill his glass.   
  
“The Sacred Band of Thebes was a Greek military battalion composed entirely of male . . . lovers,” John said.  
  
Dean felt his breath stop in his chest and he stared at his father with wide, shocked eyes. He tensed all over and suddenly he was that fifteen-year-old boy sitting in some random diner taking a sharp smack from his father for something he refused to give up—no matter how hard John tried to convince him it was wrong. John had been so fierce, so frightened and so angry then. This couldn’t be the same man speaking to them now.   
  
John glanced at Sam, then at Dean and then he went on. “They believed that a soldier who was in a loving bond with another soldier would gladly die in battle rather than shame his lover by exhibiting cowardice. In other words, they would die to glorify and protect their lover. If the bond was strong enough.” He looked down at his glass and Dean’s eye was drawn to a long scrape healing on his father’s left hand. The only other thing on that large, strong hand was his wedding ring.  
  
“The Greek armies remain to this day one of the most successful fighting forces in human history,” John explained further. He looked at Dean and spoke in a soft voice. “By throwing that particular book at me, your brother was trying to make me understand that . . . your sexual relationship with each other was a natural, instinctive response to what I was putting you through with all the combat training. He was trying to enlighten me, Dean—and to get me off _your_ back about it all.”  
  
Dean stared at his father in disbelief. “Are you SURE you’re my dad?”  
  
John laughed and gave his son’s knee a solid squeeze. “I’m sure. Don’t worry, I haven’t been possessed or anything. I’ve just been . . . re-examining things lately.” Again, he looked across at Sam. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you, son.”  
  
Sam’s eyes, red-rimmed from crying, clouded over with uneasy doubt. “In what way?”   
  
John hesitated for a long time before he answered. His eyes focused on his youngest boy with fervent concentration. The expression reminded Dean of how they looked a few moments ago when they were trying to communicate telepathically. He wondered if his father was saying something to Sam—something he didn’t want Dean to know. Jealous anger welled up in him so swiftly, it almost burned. He looked down at his glass then drank its contents, hoping to assuage his brimming emotions.  
  
“I’ve been thinking about lots of things, Sam,” John Winchester said. “Mostly . . . I’ve been remembering things about you as a boy. Things I didn’t really pay attention to when you were growing up. I don’t know if I was just distracted or if I just didn’t want to see . . . but . . . you have always been a pretty powerful psychic. Because I didn’t see it, I never knew to help you—to get you some instruction on how to hone those abilities.”  
  
Sam frowned, sniffed, blew his nose again. “How do you know about them now? You and I haven’t spoken in almost five years.”  
  
“Missouri told me. And your brother. When you were at Stanford, you’d talk to him all the time and he would tell me vague details of your conversations—blessedly leaving out things I didn’t need to know.” He cocked an eyebrow at Dean. “It was enough to get the picture.”  
  
Dean suddenly felt cold inside and he swallowed hard. “Missouri,” he said. “You were there, weren’t you? In Lawrence.”  
  
John only nodded.  
  
“Why didn’t you come? We needed you, Dad!”  
  
“No, you didn’t. You were fine. And . . . besides, I didn’t need to go back there. You boys did. All of that . . . was between Mary and her children. It had a different purpose for me . . . but I didn’t need to be present at the house.”  
  
“What purpose did it have for you?” Dean asked, his voice stilted and quiet. He felt like his skin was on too tight.   
  
John sighed and averted his eyes. “Please . . . let me get into that another time. Okay?”  
  
It wasn’t the least bit okay, but Dean accepted it. Like he always did. He was starting to understand why that particular characteristic of his drove Sam straight up the wall.  
  
John looked back at Sam. “Are you getting visions every day?”  
  
“No,” he said. “Sometimes I don’t get any for weeks.” He shook his head and breathed a tired laugh. “I don’t feel very psychic. I just have bad dreams. A lot.”  
  
“You always did,” John said softly. “Don’t you remember?”  
  
Sam nodded. “They never came true before, though.”  
  
“Not that you knew of. You used to dream about things and you’d tell me . . . at the time, it seemed so random and far-fetched. But what you were getting was like . . . feeds from a source you didn’t know you were connected to. You were dreaming about people you’d never met and places you’d never been. When you would tell me about those dreams, I just assumed you were venting kid fears in your sleep. It never occurred to me that you were seeing events that hadn’t happened yet—things that were changeable.” He paused to empty his glass then he stared into it for a long, quiet moment. “The thing I remember most is that the nightmares just . . . went away if you were sleeping with Dean.”  
  
The boys looked at each other but it hurt too much to hold the gaze. Both of them looked down again as their father went on.  
  
“I remember the first time I realized that, in fact,” he said. “Do you?”  
  
Again, they looked at each other but found it too difficult to keep the connection. That quick look revealed everything, though. Both of John Winchester’s sons remembered that event with the utmost clarity. Almost as if it were happening all over again.  
  
  
***St. Charles, Missouri was humid and dank. At least that’s how it felt to Sam. The air just hung where it was, stagnant, and it hurt his lungs to breathe it. It seemed to take twice the effort to move that sludgy oxygen in and out.   
  
Dad had brought the boys with him on a hunt for what he believed to be a chupacabra. Six children, four dogs and nine cats had gone missing in St. Charles and the only evidence left behind had been some bloody bones that were chewed beyond recognition by a land bound creature with several rows of teeth. The bite range was too small for a werebeast of any kind, so John Winchester placed his bets on a chupacabra. The creature wasn’t easy to find, but they’d been getting close. Sam had been able to practice his skills with the shotgun, something he would never admit to enjoying. That would mess up his whole bitter, rebellious fifteen-year-old routine—just when he was really getting it down.  
  
He lay on his back next to his dad in that big, lumpy motel bed, listening to both his dad and brother sleeping. Dean was on his side so he wasn’t snoring, but Dad was on his back and sawing logs to beat the band. But that wasn’t why Sam was still awake at 2:30 in the morning. He was awake because it was the only safe place to be—the nightmares couldn’t get him if he didn’t go into their realm. And since he couldn’t seek refuge in Dean’s arms, he was stuck.   
  
He looked over at his brother sleeping soundly only a few feet away. Damn, he was gorgeous. So gorgeous that sometimes it made Sam sick to his stomach. In certain light, Dean was a sculpture of an erotic angel.   
  
Rolling onto his own side, Sam contented himself with analyzing every contour of his brother’s sleeping face. A thin wedge of light from a streetlamp outside the bathroom striped across Dean’s cheek, illuminating the golden stubble there. Those lips . . . dark pink, plump and pouting, gently parted to let his breath move in and out. Sam could picture those lips wrapped tightly around his cock, Dean’s beautiful, round green eyes half-mast with lust, watching his face as he sucked and swallowed . . . nice and slow. It never took him long to get Sam off, even though the younger Winchester tried with all his might to keep it together. It all just felt too damned good. And LOOKED too unbelievably hot. Sometimes just the visual stimulation of Dean’s lips _touching_ his cock sent Sam right over the edge.   
  
He sighed and licked his lips, squirming slightly as his erection went from tense to throbbing. He pushed it into the mattress and almost whimpered from how sensitive it was. Dad had been making a concerted effort to keep the boys apart—most especially not allowing them to be alone together. He wouldn’t even let them both sit in the back seat of the car at the same time. The day before, when they’d both got up to use the bathroom at a truck stop, John had objected. Even though Sam’s bladder was about to burst, his father made him wait until Dean came back to the table.  
  
Their father’s strict efforts were an annoying obstacle, but hardly a complete success. The man did have to sleep, after all.  
  
When John would nod off and start really snoring, Sam would slip out the front door of their motel room with the car keys and go climb into the back seat. Dean would follow shortly and they would lock themselves in for a nice long make-out session in the darkness of the parking lot. They’d done this six times since they’d been on that particular hunt and in two weeks, their dad was none the wiser.  
  
Still, they were way under par to their usual frequency and that was causing them both physical and mental distress. The boys took every opportunity to merely brush against each other, stealing kisses and quick caresses where they could. All of that was torture, of course, because they couldn’t close the deal, but the clandestine nature of it made it incredibly exciting. But there was another, more disturbing side effect to all that forced celibacy.  
  
The longer Dad kept them apart, the worse Sam’s nightmares became.  
  
Sam sighed and stared across those few feet of distance between the beds, drinking in all the tiny details of Dean’s perfect face. He became transfixed by his brother’s dense honey blond lashes as they lay softly against his smooth, lightly freckled cheeks. And then those lashes fluttered and Dean was looking at him.  
  
They smiled at each other in the quiet room and Sam’s heart started to race.   
  
Dean licked those scrumptious lips and then he whispered, very softly. “Go to sleep.”  
  
Sam shook his head once. “Can’t,” he whispered back. “ _You_ go back to sleep so I can watch you.”  
  
In that narrow wedge of light from the bathroom window, Sam saw Dean’s cheeks color.   
  
“How can that be interesting?” he whispered.  
  
“You have no idea.”  
  
Laughing silently, Dean rolled onto his back. He turned his head to look at his brother. “You’re pretty, too, dumbass.”  
  
Sam shrugged dismissively and kept on enjoying the view.   
  
For a few long minutes they just stared, green eyes pouring over the other’s body with blatant intent. Sam nodded to the thin sheet covering Dean’s body from the waist down.  
  
“Move that,” he mouthed.  
  
Dean’s lips tilted and he turned the sheet back, exposing his legs. He wore only an old pair of boxers that were ultra soft and paper thin from many washings. That strip of light danced across the golden hairs on his naked belly and Sam swallowed, his mouth suddenly flooded with saliva. He loved those sparkling, silky hairs. He ached to wet them with his tongue and pull at them with his front teeth. Dean saw the direction of his brother’s gaze and he brought his fingers to that sweet spot right below his navel. With just his fingernails, he tickled those hairs, tugging at them, stroking them, flirting with them until Sam almost groaned out loud.  
  
He looked in Dean’s eyes miserably. “Knock it off, asshole,” he hissed. “You’re killing me.”  
  
“You said you wanted to see,” Dean teased, whispering in the cloying darkness.   
  
Sam sighed. “I hate you.”  
  
Dean smirked. “You do not.” He’d been wearing his hazel-blond hair long in the front and it tumbled into his eyes when he shook his head. “You worship me. You want to marry me. You want to have my babies.”  
  
Sam couldn’t help but laugh, even though he knew it would cause a dangerous vibration in the mattress. Luckily, their father kept on snoring. He whispered across the room again.   
  
“You are SOOO stuck-up.”  
  
Dean preened, running his fingers through his long bangs. “Wouldn’t YOU be? LOOK at me!” And then he grinned brightly making Sam laugh again.  
  
“Get the keys,” Dean whispered, glancing warily at their sleeping father.  
  
Sam nodded, shifting and sitting up very slowly. He put one foot on the floor and glanced over his shoulder at his father. At that slight movement, John’s snoring stopped and he turned over onto his side, facing the very door the boys would escape through. After a moment, his breathing evened out again but there was no snoring—yet. Much too dangerous for a flight attempt. Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. “Great,” he mouthed to his brother.  
  
“Shit,” Dean mimed, biting his lip. The older boy looked around the room, clearly formulating some sort of plan. When an idea hit him, his lovely face lit up like a sunny morning. “Sammy . . . fake a nightmare. A super bad one,” he whispered.   
  
Sam frowned, confused. “Huh?”  
  
“Thrash and groan, get all sweaty. Do it up good.”  
  
Glancing over at their father again, Sam still didn’t get it. “You _want_ me to wake him up?”  
  
Dean nodded. “Be reeeeally pitiful. Trust me. Go for it.”  
  
Sam wasn’t about to second guess his big brother—at least not at that point in his life. He laid back down on the bed and settled in as though he were sleeping, shifting slightly and turning onto his right side facing his father. He lay there for about five minutes until he heard John start to snore again and then he got on with histrionics.   
  
Calling up a particularly horrible nightmare he’d had earlier in the week, Sam let his imagination run wild until he’d literally scared himself into a tizzy. Breaking into a sweat was no problem because the room was already boiling hot, but he had to draw on acting abilities he didn’t know he possessed in order to sell the pitiful groaning. He wiggled on the bed, thrashing just a little (he didn’t want to overkill it) and then he added a frightened little whimper for good measure. That was the sound that woke his father.  
  
John sat up, still mostly asleep, and turned to his boy in the bed beside him. He frowned worriedly at Sam and then touched his son’s arm, firm and reassuring.  
  
“Sammy? Sammy, wake up.”   
  
Sam groaned and heaved ragged breaths for a few seconds before he sat bolt upright beside his father. Sweat ran down his face and stuck his hair to his forehead. He felt pretty certain he looked convincingly freaked.   
  
John put an arm around him and gave him a little hug. “Are you all right, son?”  
  
Nodding, Sam took shaky breaths. “I just . . . god! I can’t sleep, Dad.” He flopped back on the bed, all angst and frustration.  
  
“Yeah, well . . . I’m not getting much shut-eye, either,” John said, gently. “Will you try a sleeping pill?”  
  
Sam shook his head vehemently. “I hate those things,” he said. “They make me feel like barfing.”  
  
Sighing, John scrubbed his hands over his face. That was when Dean piped up.  
  
“Dad?”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“He won’t have nightmares if he sleeps with me.”  
  
John snorted and gave his oldest a look of mild disdain from across the dim room. “Do I look that stupid, Dean?”  
  
“Dad,” Dean said, sitting up in his bed. “You’re right here—three feet away. What the hell are we gonna do? I just know that . . . he’ll sleep the night through if he’s next to me.”  
  
John frowned, his paternal frustration growing. “And why is that, exactly? What do you do for him that makes the nightmares stop?”  
  
Dean shrugged. “I dunno. Nothing. I just sleep next to him. For whatever reason, that makes them stop.” He looked at his father directly, holding his gaze with unflagging bravery. “Wouldn’t it be nice to actually get a full night’s sleep?”  
  
“Dean, I may not be Father of the Year, but there is no way on this godforsaken earth I’m going to offer you and your brother an opportunity to . . .” he stopped, his brow wrinkling in annoyance because he couldn’t find the least objectionable phrase. “You know—touch each other. Or whatever the hell you do. It’s not gonna happen.” He looked down at Sam and sighed. “Try the pill—for me?”  
  
“I don’t want to,” he said in a small voice, but with no defiance. That close to success, they both had to tread carefully.  
  
“Dad,” Dean implored and that got him another grouchy stare from his father.   
  
“Don’t push me, kid. I’m serious.”  
  
“I’m just talking about sleeping,” Dean said. “I give you my word. We’ll just sleep.”  
  
Dean’s father stared at him for a long moment and Sam could swear he heard the wheels turning in his father’s mind. The air was so still, it made Sam’s entire body tense. Finally, John Winchester let out a relenting sigh and shook his head wearily.   
  
“All right,” he said. “But I swear to god, you two . . . one peep and Sam’s back with me. Deal?” He looked first at Dean.  
  
“Deal.”  
  
John turned to Sam who was already sitting up. “Sammy? You gonna behave yourself or are you gonna make me crazy?”  
  
“I’ll be good.” He flashed a speedy smile that would later become another one of Sam’s signature expressions, then he hightailed it over to Dean’s bed. He crawled in under the thin sheet and Dean laid down next to him.   
  
“I mean it,” John said. “One peep.” He stood up and headed for the bathroom, flipping on the light in there. He pulled the door closed but left it open a crack while he went in and relieved himself.   
  
In that brief second of privacy, Sam nuzzled his brother’s neck and tasted the skin there with his tongue.  
  
“Don’t,” Dean whispered, glancing uneasily at the cracked bathroom door.   
  
Sighing in frustration, Sam said, “I can’t believe you promised him.”  
  
“I didn’t promise. I said ‘I give you my word.’ That’s not the same as promising.”  
  
Sam frowned at this logic and then he wriggled against Dean under the thin sheet. “and this is better how? We still can’t get each other off.”  
  
“It’s better because of this.” Dean pressed close, slipped one arm under the crook of Sam’s neck and the other around his torso. Their legs touched from the tops of their naked thighs all the way down to their ankles and Dean’s fingers threaded into Sam’s soft hair at the nape. This little touch triggered a response in Sam that made him sigh with pleasure and comfort. His head rested gently against his brother’s strong arm and he curled his fingers against Dean’s warm belly.   
  
Quickly, while they still had the chance, they stole a deep, wet kiss, savoring the other’s familiar, quenching flavor. This made them both hard instantly and their cocks reached for each other between their flush bodies. A little wiggling to and fro and they found the right hitch. Everything was touching then . . . hips, chests, tummies, shoulders, cheeks, thighs, cocks-everything connected to its perfect puzzle-piece fit. They both sighed.  
  
“Okay,” Sam breathed contentedly. “I get it.”  
  
“Mm hmm,” Dean hummed in his ear, making all the hairs stand up along Sam’s spine. “Now just relax. He’ll fall asleep soon. You should sleep, too, if you can. I’m on nightmare patrol.”  
  
Hearing that, Sam smiled and then he did relax. In fact, he felt so warm and safe curled up with Dean that he melted into an intense and utterly dreamless sleep that lasted well into the next day. He hadn’t realized just how exhausted he was from the constant onslaught of those dreadful nightmares.   
  
When consciousness crept up on him, it was sluggish and reluctant. He felt drugged from his long, deep slumber. His body was so warm and comfortable that he didn’t bother to open his eyes. All he needed to know was that Dean was there with him, pressed close, sleeping safe and sound in an easy tangle of limbs.   
  
He cuddled into his brother’s sleep-warm body and breathed in his scent as though he were smelling a bunch of fresh cut roses. Eyes still closed, Sam wet his lips and licked at the peach fuzz that dusted Dean’s earlobe, loving the way it tickled his tongue. Then he sucked it into his mouth very gently and nursed on it until he was shivering with primal pleasure. Dean stirred against him, his sleepy cock twitching to life against Sam’s already throbbing one. They pressed closer to each other as their erections lengthened and Sam moved his mouth to Dean’s.   
  
They were both still mostly asleep so they snuggled languidly, barely moving. He felt Dean’s fingers tickling his belly as he reached down between their bodies and gathered both their hard cocks in his grasp. They were each leaking copiously by then and he smeared that slick liquid around both their quivering cock heads until he had enough lubricant for stroking.   
  
Sam whimpered in ecstasy as those skillful, knowing fingers found all the most tingly spots to caress. He loved this delicious pleasure in particular-rubbing their cocks together until they squirted all over each other’s bellies. It was so raw and animalistic. Easily one of his favorite erotic pastimes. That and sucking Dean’s cock until he yelped like a puppy.   
  
Their kiss wasn’t really a kiss at all-it was more of a slow, dreamlike feeding. Sam had Dean’s bottom lip nestled in between his own two and he drew on it over and over as though it would give him sustenance. He knew Dean loved this sucking sensation and so did he. Sam could feel his brother’s body heating up and tensing as his orgasm drew nearer and Sam followed right along behind him. The feeling kept building between them like a shared storm and that soft, lazy suckling went on right up to the edge when the climax took hold.   
  
They both sucked in air and pressed tightly together. Dean moved his hand out of the way and they shifted slightly so they could press their cocks into the other’s hard, naked belly. Sam trembled as his cock pulsed and squirted hot semen again and again, soaking those golden hairs on Dean’s belly that he so very much adored. He gasped when he felt his brother’s fresh ejaculate spill against his own skin, oozing down into Sam’s pubic hair in warm, thick drips.   
  
Once the initial spasms let up and there was nothing left but the residual shuddering tingles, the boys’ lips found one another again. They lapped and sucked, taking sensual little bites at each other’s blood-heated flesh until all their movements slowed to nothing. Bodies warm and sated, they drifted right back to sleep in each other arms, lips still gently pressed together as they breathed slow and even, sharing the air. Through all that sedated pleasure, they had never once opened their eyes.   
  
Less than a minute later, Sam jolted awake when he suddenly remembered their current surroundings.  
  
Blinking, he looked around the day lit motel room frantically and then his wide green eyes landed on his father. He stood at the foot of their bed dressed in his usual jeans and khaki shirt, arms crossed over his broad chest-watching them. Sam gasped, froze and looked at him for a few panicked seconds, and then John spoke.  
  
“Forgot where you were, huh, son?”  
  
Sam swallowed so hard his throat clicked in the silent room. He nodded. And then Dean flinched in his arms and woke up with a start. A very similar set of glances were exchanged between him and their father, and then the older brother sighed heavily.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“Yeah,” John said, turning toward the bathroom. “That’s what I say.” He went inside and shut the door with a solid click. The next sound they heard was their father retching.  
  
  
***


	2. Chapter 2

***  
(continued from Part One)  
  
John got up and walked over to the table by the window where he’d left the grocery bag. Reaching into it, he pulled out three things: a packet of pink coconut Sno Balls, a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos and a box of Mallomars. He brought the snacks back to the bed and sat down again.  
  
“You still like these, right?” he said, handing Dean the Sno Balls.  
  
“He lives on them,” Sam said. “Those, M&Ms and anything smothered in Ranch dressing.”  
  
John handed his youngest the Doritos. “Unless I’m mistaken, you used to live on these.”  
  
“Still does,” Dean said. “Those and _my_ french fries, although I don’t understand why he can’t get his own.”  
  
“Yours taste better because it bugs you when I eat them.”  
  
John snickered at his sons’ banter. “Well, enjoy that. It won’t last. A few more years, your metabolism will grind to a halt and then you’ll start lookin’ like me.” He pulled open the Mallomars and reached in for one of the chocolate covered cookies.   
  
Sam opened the chips and put a few in his mouth, crunching loudly. Dean wondered if the whisky was getting to him and he shivered a little with the memory of how hot and wanton Sam had been under the influence of the morphine the night before.   
  
“I remember you let us sleep most of that next day,” Sam said to their father.  
  
John nodded. “It was the first good rest you’d had in three weeks, Sammy. I was worried about you. You had these scary dark patches under your eyes. I figured, even if I had to make myself nuts by putting you two in the same bed, at least you’d finally get some sleep.” He took a bite of the cookie. “Funny thing was, Dean had been sleeping fine but as soon as you were in bed with him, he was out like a light until YOU woke up. You both went down at 2:30 a.m. and didn’t move or make a sound until 3:00 p.m. the next day. You never even changed position. It was like Dean was sleeping sympathetically with you because you needed the rest so badly. Craziest thing.”  
  
“He still does that,” Sam said very softly, but he didn’t look up.  
  
John glanced at the two rumpled unmade beds. “I gather nothing has changed between you two—at least . . . in that way.”   
  
Dean frowned at his dad. “Actually, we did sleep in separate beds last night. Cuz he’s hurt and everything.”  
  
“Not all night,” John said. He touched his index finger to his nose and his eyes twinkled knowingly. “Not only am I your father, but I’m also a male of the species. I know what spent semen smells like. The two of you were pretty crafty when you were kids, but you still never got anything by the old man. I knew every single time you did . . . whatever it was you got up to.” He shook his head a bit sadly. “For a while there, I thought you were going for a record.”  
  
Dean groaned and flopped backward on the bed, covering his face with his hands. “I HATE this topic!” he complained.  
  
John chuckled bitterly. “It ain’t my favorite, either, kiddo. But it is what it is.” He gave Dean’s exposed belly a rough but affectionate tickle. “I’d lie to say I wasn’t hoping you’d grow out of it eventually, but I think I know better now. It’s part of you . . . the dynamic that is your particular brotherhood bond. No one can change it. Least of all, your grouchy, close-minded old dad.”  
  
Sam was quiet, thoughtfully munching Doritos one at a time. Dean saw him watching their father closely but he couldn’t read his brother’s expression. Finally, Sam spoke.  
  
“You don’t seem very close-minded right now. In fact, you’re being downright supportive.” He crunched another chip then went on. “Where’ve you been, Dad? Tibet?”  
  
John took a deep breath and looked from one to the other of his boys. “You’re not gonna like this . . . but . . . I can’t tell you that, yet.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “That’s just what I thought you’d say,” he snarked.  
  
Dean sat up again, stuck out his leg and kicked Sam in the shin—hard. “Hey! Watch your mouth, little bitch. You told me that if we found Dad, you wanted to apologize to him. I’m still waiting to hear that come outta you.”  
  
“IF you found me?” John interrupted, waylaying the boys’ argument for another moment. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Dean with a little smile. “You had doubts? I always thought you were a pretty reliable tracker.”  
  
“You could have been dead,” Sam said and Dean shot him another glare.   
  
“Sure, but you still would have found me. At some point.” John lowered his voice and held Dean’s gaze. “You had to feel it somewhere inside that I was fine. If you really thought I was in danger, you would have been looking harder.”  
  
Dean stared at him. “What? You think I wasn’t looking hard enough?!”  
  
“That isn’t what I said, son. Take it easy—you’re fighting with Sam, not me. All I meant was that you must have known I was all right. If you’d thought otherwise, you would have stopped at nothing to come after me.”  
  
Dean sighed, suddenly feeling incredibly tired. He reached for the packet of Sno Balls his father had brought for him and opened it, extracting one of the unearthly pink cakes. He bit into it and chewed, the sugary sweet blast hitting his taste buds like ice water. He loved those things, but he worried that every time he ate one after that day, it would remind him of all the sadness he was feeling right then.  
  
“The point is, I’m here now,” John said softly. “And if we can, I’d like to talk through some of the shit that’s been between us.” He looked at his youngest with mild, gentle eyes. “You do know that all I’ve ever wanted was for you to be protected, right? I didn’t want you to leave us because you weren’t safe by yourself. You see why now . . . right? You understand that I . . . wasn’t making that up.”  
  
Sam crunched another chip and leveled his gaze at his father. “Why did Jess have to die?”  
  
“Why did your mother?” John returned, unflinching.  
  
Sam’s brow knit. “So . . . if Dean ever actually falls in love with a woman, she’s gonna die the same way?”  
  
“I’ve been in love,” Dean snapped. He scowled hard at Sam who glared back.  
  
“No, you haven’t,” the younger brother said. “You just DO women, you don’t care about them. If you’d stopped long enough to have feelings for any one of them, she’d be dead now, too.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Dean growled, his belly tightening like rope.  
  
“All right, knock it off. Jesus, you two.” John sighed, looking down at his hands and thought for a long moment. “Sam I don’t know if that’s necessarily true. We don’t . . . know what this thing is. Or what it wants. Why it’s targeted us.” John paused. “And why it seems to be so particularly interested in you.”  
  
Dean turned to his father, his skin going cold all over. “What do you mean?”  
  
“It was in Sam’s nursery that night,” John said, shaking his head. “I just don’t know . . . why. I need to find out why this thing came for you. And why it’s still following our family.”  
  
Sam set the bag of Doritos aside, sighing in uneasy concentration. “You think this thing is trying to _take_ me? Still? I mean, if it is—it’s had PLENTY of chances. Right now, for example! If it wants me so bad, why doesn’t it just blow through that door and snatch me away? Be done with it, already.”  
  
John shrugged. “I wish I had that answer, son. I was terrified when you were so far away from me at Stanford. For those first few months, it was my turn to live in the land of nightmares.”  
  
“Dean said you used to come to campus and keep an eye on me.”  
  
John nodded. “Whenever I could.” He looked in Sam’s eyes and lowered his voice. “I saw you with your girl, son. She was beautiful. I’m . . . really, so very sorry.”  
  
Sam looked away and then suddenly he was crying again, which clearly annoyed him to no end. He frowned and wiped at his face, picking up his father’s handkerchief again. John reached across with his hand and tentatively placed it on Sam’s knee. This was the first time they’d touched each other with anything but rage in almost five years.  
  
“Why didn’t you ever talk to me—tell me you were there?” Sam sniffled angrily. “I had no idea until he told me and then I totally didn’t believe it.”  
  
“Sammy, the way we parted . . .”  
  
“You did too believe it,” Dean interjected. “I saw it in your eyes.”  
  
Sam looked at his father again, those same eyes red and wet. “I wanted to believe it, but . . . after you told me never to come back if I left . . . it was so hard to think you even cared about what happened to me.”  
  
“I cared, all right.” John squeezed his youngest son’s knee. “Cared myself into a bottle every night over that fight we had. Over what might happen to you out there on your own.”  
  
Looking down at his father’s hand, Sam just let the tears spill over his smooth, tanned cheeks. “All those things we said. That fight was like . . .”  
  
“World War III,” Dean finished morosely. He tossed his half eaten Sno Ball back into the wrapper and put it on the night table. “I couldn’t believe the things you said to each other. I mean, you guys used to knock heads a lot, but . . . damn. You were like two wild dogs trying to kill each other with words.”  
  
Sam sniffed, still looking down at his father’s hand on his knee. Then slowly, with trembling fingers, he covered that hand with his own. They sat like that, still and quiet, for a long time. Unable to look up, he whispered softly. “I’m sorry, Dad. I just . . . wanted a life . . . that wasn’t the one I got dealt.”  
  
“You think I didn’t want that for you, too?” John said, his voice breaking. “For both of you? Sam, you and Dean are my _babies_. My children. You have no idea how much I love you. What I would do for you. No idea.”   
  
Sam tipped forward and put his arms around his father’s neck and they held onto each other so tightly for almost five minutes. By the time they finally let go, all three of them were crying. Sam sat on the floor between the two beds and blew his nose again. Dean watched him do this, aching inside to reach out and comfort him—to just be finished with all this anger. But he knew Sam wouldn’t let him. Not yet, at least.  
  
“All right,” John said, standing up and going to the bathroom. He grabbed a handful of tissues and blew his nose while he stood in the door way, then he grabbed some more tissues and brought them to Dean. “Let’s get you two talking like rational adults. All this sniping is nuts. It’s not like you.” He sat down on the bed and cleared his throat. “Sam, you have to know that Dean is a victim here, just like you are. He’s not responsible for any of the things that happened to you . . . or to your girl. In fact,” John looked at his oldest. “This is the best I’ve seen him look since you left for college. Being with you is restoring him. I can tell.”  
  
Sam forced himself to look at his brother and they held each other’s gaze. John watched them closely, maybe trying to read their thoughts. All Dean could think about was how badly he wanted this rough patch to be over. If they could just get through this, everything would be fine. Well, as fine as it could be for the Winchester family.  
  
Glancing from one to the other of them, John shook his head when he saw that neither were terribly interested in starting a dialogue. “I’d tell you to kiss and make up,” he said with a slightly bitter smirk. “But I’m too afraid you’d _do_ it. Then I’d have to puke up lunch and that would be a waste of a good burger.”   
  
He stood up again, walking back to the table by the door. “What I will do is give you boys a few minutes on your own to do . . . whatever you need to do to smooth things over. I’m going to see Earl about the mirror and I’ll settle your bill while I’m there.” He paused with his hand on the door and looked at his sons. “No more fighting, all right? Kill the evil sons of bitches, not each other. Remember, we’re a team—we’ve got a job to do. And no pinch hitters exist, boys. Work it out.” He gave them an affectionate wink and then slipped out the door.  
  
Sam was still sitting on the floor between the beds so Dean slid down there, too. Equal ground and all. They looked at each other furtively, both of them listening to the tense silence buzzing in the room. Finally, Dean rolled his eyes, broke down and started talking.  
  
“I’d offer to go outside and throw down until we get it out of our systems, but . . . you’re all injured and shit. It’d be like hitting a kid with glasses.”  
  
Sam sighed, letting his head fall back on the mattress behind his back. “I don’t wanna fight you, Dean. I just want you to stop bossing me around and being . . . such a fucking jerk all the time.”  
  
Dean’s brow knit deeply. “Whatever, Sam. In my mind, I’m trying to protect you.”  
  
“By telling me what to do all the time?”  
  
“I don’t DO it all the time! I just . . . make suggestions once in a while based on my experiences. You’ve been gone from the job for almost five years, dude. There’s shit you don’t know or might possibly have forgotten! I’m trying to keep you from getting killed!”  
  
“Yeah, okay—but there’s also shit I know that YOU don’t know!” Sam yelled back. “Did you ever think that maybe I might have something new—something beneficial to offer?! Maybe I’ve learned something that could help . . . or make something you’re already doing work better. It could happen, Dean! Stanford University isn’t a fucking trade school.”  
  
“Oh, hell yeah—I am so damn glad you said that!!” Dean sat up straighter, brandishing an angry index finger in Sam’s face. “Quit fucking treating me like I’m some dumb blond bimbo! You have book smarts, Sam, sure—but you DON’T have the same smarts that I do!” He huffed a bitter laugh. “I couldn’t believe your stuck up, stupid ass rippin’ on my EMF meter. All you could do was bitch about how it LOOKED, but it never once occurred to you that I fucking MADE that thing!! I made a fully functional piece of sophisticated electronic equipment out of crap layin’ around in my car! Can _you_ do that, college boy?”  
  
Sam winced and his red-rimmed eyes widened for an instant before he looked away. His cheeks colored darkly. Dean was so angry, he was actually exhilarated by his brother’s stricken expression, where normally such a thing would devastate him. This time, though, it told him in no uncertain terms that he’d hit a nerve. And that was of the good.  
  
“That’s right,” he went on, but in a slightly softer voice. “You totally treat me like I’m an idiot. When we have to use Latin words to jack up some demon, the fact that you actually know what they mean doesn’t make you better than me, Sam. I don’t give a shit what the words mean, man—as long as the fuckin’ demon knows!” He flopped back against the bed behind him, his anger shifting from a rolling boil to a simmer. “I just wish you’d be more . . .”  
  
“Respectful,” Sam finished in a small voice.  
  
Dean sighed. “Yeah. I wish you’d show me the same respect I show you.”  
  
“Tch!” Sam snorted. “‘Excuse me, professor’ is showing respect? You rip as much shit on my book smarts as I EVER do on your lack of them. You call me a geek one more time, I swear to god, dude—I’ll lay you out! In case you’ve forgotten, this particular bookworm is a near expert marksman and also earned a freakin’ black belt at age nine!” He wound his long arms around his bent knees and actually pouted like he was nine.   
  
Dean almost smiled, but then he thought better of it. “See?” he said instead, his voice a soft rasp.  
  
Sam glared at him. “What?”  
  
“You’re proud of those things. Your warrior skills. Even though you try to act like you resent having them.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, the younger brother said, “of course I’m proud of them. I busted my ass for both. Just as much as I busted my ass to get into Stanford. It’s all important to me, Dean. It’s all . . . my . . . my . . .”  
  
“Destiny,” Dean whispered.   
  
They looked at each other again and that time, all the anger had melted away. The only thing left was the cavernous sadness they shared, the lonely isolation they couldn’t escape and the unshakable love that would save their lives over and over.  
  
Spent, Sam shook his head and sighed, sniffling again. He looked down at his father’s handkerchief still balled up in his long-fingered hand. “This smells like him,” he whispered. “Like that shaving lotion he’s used forever.”   
  
Dean glanced at the white crinkle of fabric in his brother’s hand. “I bet it smells like you, too—with all your snot on it. Cry baby.”  
  
Sam shoved his brother’s shoulder. “Shut up, asshole. If there’s one thing I know _for sure_ that I deserve, it’s a good cry.”  
  
Dean snickered. “You’re such a girl.”  
  
“Yeah, you wish.”  
  
Surprised by that comment, Dean looked up. “I do?”  
  
“Sure you do,” Sam said. “If I was a girl, I’d be so in love with your gorgeous ass that I’d just roll over and do whatever you said.”  
  
Frowning, Dean said, “you think that’s what I want from you?”  
  
“Seems like.”  
  
“Well, you’re wrong, dude. Completely.” Dean reached up on the night table for that packet of pink Sno Balls and he shoved the remaining uneaten half into his mouth all at once. He continued his response around a mouthful of bright pink cake, white cream filling and coconut flakes. “I want you to be my partner, Sam. I need to rely on you and know you’ve got my back. I do NOT want to control you.” He felt a bit of the cream from the inside of the Sno Ball squirt out onto his bottom lip and he reached up to wipe it off with his thumb—but Sam’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. “What?” he snapped.  
  
The younger Winchester brother set their father’s handkerchief aside and scooted forward, still grasping Dean’s wrist. His tear-puffy green eyes were focused on that smear of cream on his brother’s lip. “Hold still,” Sam whispered.  
  
Dean felt his blood race all of a sudden as Sam leaned toward him and licked his smooth pink lips. In a second, his hot tongue was sliding along Dean’s lip, gently licking up the sugary cream filling and taking it into his mouth to swallow.   
  
“Uh . . .” Dean breathed. “Is this the . . . kiss and make up part?”  
  
“Uh huh,” Sam said and then he pressed his lips to Dean’s very softly.  
  
“Let me swallow,” Dean said, moving back an inch to finish chewing the sweet cake in his mouth. While he did this, they looked at each other very closely—their green eyes searching, still slightly challenging, but mostly just watching to make sure the ground between them was stable again.   
  
“So . . . do you still hate me?” Dean whispered.  
  
Sam’s eyes rolled and he smiled. “I never hated you, retard. I was just mad. I’m probably gonna BE mad for, like . . . ever. It’s just the way I process all this shit. It totally pisses me off.”  
  
“Quit taking it out on me.” Dean swallowed the last of the cake in his mouth, then wet his lips. “Hit walls or stick firecrackers up cats’ asses or something, but don’t take it out on me, man. Seriously.”  
  
Sam chuckled darkly. “You’ve always hated cats. Why is that?”  
  
“They’re evil,” Dean stated matter-of-factly. “Anything that can drop three stories and land on its feet is a fucking devil and it needs to be killed.”  
  
Shaking his head, Sam said, “you’re insane.”  
  
“We’re both insane, dude,” Dean said. “That’s just another fringe benefit of our auspicious employment. We get to kill evil shit with loud weapons, dance on the edge of the law every day and we get carte blanch to have bats in the belfry for our trouble.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Better than a 401K plan any day.”  
  
“Right,” Sam said. “Now . . . the kissing part?”  
  
Dean nodded with a flirty grin. “Hell, yeah, that’s my Sammy. Fast forward to the porn. Oh, but wait—did you notice?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“We found Dad.”  
  
Sam shook his head and a cynical smirk tugged his pretty lips. This expression had become much more frequent in the last few weeks and Dean didn’t particularly care for it. It smacked of a depth of knowledge about life and its inhabitants that Sam Winchester was simply too young to have. Or at least he should have been too young.  
  
“Dean, first of all, Dad found US. I don’t think he was ever lost. And second of all . . . have _you_ noticed?”  
  
Dean’s brow arched curiously.  
  
“He’s gone again,” Sam finished.  
  
They both turned to the closed door of their room and Dean waved his hand in the air dismissively.  
  
“Dude, weren’t you listening? He went to see the owner of this lovely inn and pay the bill. He’s coming back. Would he have left his keys if he was leaving for good?” He nodded toward that large ring of keys John Winchester had brought in along with the stuffed grocery bag. It was clear by the way the bag sat on the table that the chips and sweet snacks were not the only things it had carried into the room.   
  
In a moment, both boys were on their feet and standing at the table near the window. Sam looked outside, scanning the late afternoon for any sign of their father. His gaze swept the small parking lot in front of Earl Rainer’s B &B and found a small white minivan with the name of the inn painted on the side. The only other vehicle in the lot was their own glistening black Chevy. Granted, they hadn’t seen how their father arrived that day—perhaps he came on foot or got a ride from someone long gone. But the look on Sam’s face showed that he could feel in his bones that John Winchester was once again in the wind.  
  
Dean clenched his jaw, his chest tightening with frustration and gnawing, inexplicable fear. He picked up the keys and squinted at them closely. The ring contained a strange array of skeleton keys, house keys, keys to file cabinets and drawers and keys that looked too old and worn to open anything at all. Not a single one of them had any identifying marks—no numbers or symbols—nothing to indicate what locks they fit. Setting the key ring down, he reached for the grocery bag and stuck his nose in it like a curious hound.  
  
Inside the sack was a stack of random bits of paper covered with notes, sketches and cryptic symbols bundled with some newspaper clippings. The lot was held together by a folded white Post-It. Dean took these out of the bag and frowned at the three words scrawled on the note in his father’s handwriting.  
  
_for the journal_  
  
“Super,” he groaned. “I feel like we’re living in a fucking Hitchcock movie.” Reaching back into the sack, Dean pulled out the penultimate item inside: a large paperback book entitled The History of Ancient Greece. Another white Post-It clung to the glossy cover and across the center of it, John had written ‘for Dean’.  
  
The oldest Winchester brother pursed his lips. “What the fuck is THIS about? Like I don’t get that whole ‘sacred band’ thing? Hello! Remember me? The alleged corruptor of the innocent?!”  
  
Sam smirked and then he reached into the sack for the last of its contents—a long black leather cord strung through a delicate, simple gold wedding band. A woman’s wedding band. A bit of clear tape stuck a small scrap of white paper to the cord and on it was written the words ‘for Sam’. He plucked off the note and looked closely at the ring glinting in the palm of his hand.   
  
“It’s Mom’s,” Dean said, knowing with the utmost certainty that he was right.   
  
Sam looked at him with wide eyes. “How can it be Mom’s? Didn’t it . . .”  
  
“Burn?” Dean finished and saying that word made his skin erupt in goose bumps. He shivered then shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe . . . it . . . I don’t know, dropped off before. Or something. Maybe she took it off when she was getting ready for bed that night . . . who knows, dude. But he’s obviously had it all this time.”  
  
Sam’s brow furrowed. “So, why give it to me now?”  
  
Sighing, Dean set that big book on the table and reached for the leather cord in his brother’s hand. He took the two open ends of the cord and tied them around Sam’s neck, knotting them together just below the silky curls at his collar. “Whatever the reason,” he said. “You should wear it. Maybe it’ll keep away the nightmares.”  
  
Sam looked in his brother’s eyes. “That’s your job.”  
  
“Maybe Dad thinks this’ll keep us from sleeping together.”   
  
“Fat chance,” Sam said. “That’d take a hell of a lot more than a little gold ring—no matter who it belonged to.”  
  
They stood facing each other for a long time, just close enough to feel the heat of the other’s body. Sam tilted forward until his forehead touched Dean’s and they leaned in, balancing their weight until they were applying equal pressure to each other. Dean’s left hand slipped under the sleeve of Sam’s shirt and his fingers curled around the two strips of leather cord tied at his wrist there. He touched the leather, feeling along it until his fingertips reached the smooth black stone the cords ran through.   
  
Sam’s fingers tickled up his brother’s right wrist and he touched the same two strips of leather cord there, gently rolling the matching black stone. Neither of them said anything about these shared talismans. They’d worn them for so many years, they hardly noticed them anymore. But once in a while, when their bodies were writhing against each other, those smooth stones would find one another in the fray and clink softly. It seemed they made a spark, even though both boys knew that wasn’t true. The material the stones were made of was no longer alive. It held only symbolic magic anymore.  
  
Letting go of Sam’s wrist, Dean let his hands slip under his brother’s shirt at the waist. He held on to the warm, naked skin there, gently running the pads of his thumbs over the silky hairs on Sam’s lower belly. Just barely he grazed the edge of the gauze bandage he’d applied over his baby brother’s new stitches and the memory of that wound made him frown deeply.   
  
“Kiss me,” he whispered and Sam did—nice and soft, nothing but warm, gentle lips on lips.   
  
“You taste like sugar,” Sam murmured.  
  
“You taste like salt.” Dean kissed him again, and that time their lips parted to let the other one in. They mixed their saliva with lazy, licking tongues, pressing closer and closer as the kiss intensified. Just as Dean’s blood started to race to all his sensitive extremities, they were interrupted by the chirp of his cell phone.   
  
“It’s gotta be Dad,” he said, lunging across the nearest bed to grab his phone off the night table.  
  
“Well, either Dad or our next client,” Sam said dryly. He flopped on the bed next to his brother, rolling close so he could hear the caller.   
  
Dean leaned toward him and held the phone out so they could both hear. “Hello?”  
  
“I’m interrupting the make-up kissing, huh?” John Winchester said, the twinkle of a smile in his voice.  
  
Dean sighed irritably, but didn’t respond.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
“Okay, yes!”   
  
Sam laughed and Dean pinched him in the hip. Amazingly, John breathed a soft chuckle on the other end of the line.  
  
“Whatever,” he said. “Just so you worked things out.”  
  
“Where are you?” Dean asked, his brow knitting with impatience and the first stages of panic. “Why’d you leave again?”  
  
“Because . . .” John said and then he took a deep breath. “I’m not quite finished with something I’m working on. It shouldn’t take much longer and then I’ll be back with you boys. As long as you don’t kill each other, you should be fine until then.”  
  
“Why didn’t you just tell us that?” Sam asked, his forehead knit and his voice slightly squeezed.  
  
Their father took a deep breath on the other end of the phone. “I’ve never been one for the big emotional scenes. I figured you two might object . . . possibly strenuously if I told you I wasn’t staying this time. I just . . . couldn’t handle any more today. I’m sure you two are as wrung out as I am. Probably more.”  
  
The brothers Winchester said nothing but their matching green eyes exchanged a quick glance.   
  
“If you look in the bag I brought in,” John went on. “You’ll find a few things I thought you could use.”  
  
“Let’s talk about that book,” Dean said and his father laughed softly.  
  
“Just read the pages I marked, son,” he said. “It’s not what you think. And Sam . . .”  
  
“It is Mom’s?” John’s youngest asked.  
  
“Yes. I’ve had it . . . well, for ever. Just keep it close. I think she can help.”  
  
“Help with what?”  
  
Their foreheads touched as they leaned closer to the phone to hear John’s response. Their father sighed and then he spoke very softly.  
  
“With what’s coming.”  
  
“Great,” Dean complained. “More cryptic shit. Dad, what’s with the games?”  
  
“It’s not a game, Dean,” John said. “Just . . . please. Be patient. Do the jobs I left for you and I’ll be with you again soon. After I’m . . . finished here.” On his end of the line, there was the sudden, high-pitched wheeze of a passing semi. A few seconds later, that same truck whizzed by on the interstate outside of their room.  
  
The boys glanced at the window, glanced at each other, but before they could ask another question, their father went on.  
  
“You need to get going,” John told them. “You’re expected in Nebraska at week’s end—there’s a clipping in the bag and some notes. You’ll see. The room’s paid for, so you can just pack up and leave.” They heard a car door open and then close again. “I’ll be here if you need me, boys. But I know you won’t.”   
  
“But,” Dean protested. John cut him off.  
  
“I love you both. Above all else, take care of each other.” And then he was gone.  
  
Dean closed the phone and threw it angrily over on to the other bed. “What the fuck ever.” He flopped down on his back and glared at the ceiling, his jaw clenching so hard it made his temples throb.   
  
Sam lay beside him, stretched out on his uninjured side. He sighed heavily then looked out the window and the waning day. “Nebraska?” he said softly. “What the hell’s in Nebraska?”  
  
Dean shrugged, still frowning bitterly. “Corn and wheat fields. For days.”  
  
“Okay.” Sam turned to his brother and rolled forward until he could rest his chin on Dean’s chest. “Then I guess we should hit the road,” he said softly. “Unless you want to . . .” Sam lowered his chin and put a kiss on Dean’s naked arm.  
  
Shaking his head, Dean Winchester sat up. “I’m too freakin’ aggro now,” he said, sliding off the bed and walking over to his bag on the dresser.  
  
Sam sat up as well, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. “He’ll be back, Dean,” he said. “Dad’s just . . . doing something. Something he doesn’t want to share with us yet. Maybe it’s something about Mom. Maybe he just wants to be sure of his facts before he tells us.”  
  
“Right,” Dean said, shoving a dirty t-shirt into his bag then yanking the zipper closed. “Like I said, what the fuck ever.” He shouldered his bag and marched out the door of their room, casting a cold, frowning glance at the stack of clippings on the table beside that ring of keys. Over his shoulder, he called to Sam. “Would you grab my cell and all that shit he left for us?”   
  
“Sure,” Sam replied but Dean almost didn’t hear him. He was walking fast, boot heels pulverizing gravel as he made his way out to the little parking lot of Earl Rainer’s B &B. When he reached his beloved black Chevy, Dean wrenched open the trunk and threw his bag roughly inside.   
  
It wasn’t until he’d slammed the trunk and dropped his ass back in behind the wheel that he finally let those boiling tears tumble down his cheeks.  
  
  
The end (for now)


End file.
